


And the clock is ticking down

by Andauril



Series: Tales of the Listener [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:40:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6872587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andauril/pseuds/Andauril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last days of Lucien Lachance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the clock is ticking down

When news of J’Ghasta’s death reached him, Lucien Lachance felt his blood freeze in his veins for a moment. Had the Purification not cleansed the Brotherhood of all treachery? How could it be that the ancient rite had failed to fulfill its purpose?

But maybe, J’Ghasta’s death had not been initiated by the traitor at all. Maybe another murderer’s blade had found his throat? Although Lucien knew better than to trust in such pointless hopes. It was not easily done, to kill a Speaker of the Black Hand. Only an assassin of remarkable skill could do such a thing. But the hope remained, a small figment clinging to the back of his mind.

Until Shaleez was found murdered, and he found the Dead Drop untouched. The note he had left inside the hollowed tree stump was was still in place, exactly as he had left it.

Lucien’s blood froze once again, as a cruel suspicion began to dawn on him. But …

No! It couldn’t be. The Black Hand chosen her to cleanse the Cheydinhal Sanctuary because she was above suspicion. The traitor, hailing from the very same tainted halls, had been at work before her arrival. It couldn’t be.

But when he sought out the hollowed tree stump again, it was untouched once more, and the target she had been assigned remained alive. Instead, news of Alval Uvani’s death reached his ears.

And his suspicion became tangible, terrible knowledge.

She had betrayed them all. A second Speaker had fallen to her blade. It could only be she has been the traitor all along. All the pieces seemed to fall into place: Had she not been with the Brotherhood long enough for it to be her? Had, in the end, not all evidence pointed towards the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, the sanctuary she had been assigned to?

And they had all fallen victim to her treachery, as they had believed her to be above suspicion. Her rage and grief about the deaths of her brothers and sisters in the Sanctuary - a ruse, to lead him astray. A lie all along.

She had played her cards masterfully! And he had elevated her to be his silencer, had placed her in the position to bring about the doom of the Brotherhood. How she must have triumphed.

Now everyone would suspect him, and no one her, because for all they knew, she was only following orders. His orders. As far as the Black Hand was concerned, he was the traitor they were looking for, and she just his unknowing tool. Her would be forgiven, but if they ever found him, his life would be forfeit.

There was only one thing for him to do, to clear his name and, more importantly, to safe the Brotherhood from her treachery. He had to hunt her down, stop her before she could murder any more members of the Black Hand, and plunge his blade into her lying traitorous heart.

He felt cold, seething rage boiling inside him at the thought how she had played them all, played him. He should have never trusted her. He should never have fallen victim to her. He had given her his trust, his love even, and she had used it to her adventage to fool him until it was too late.

He would feel no regret, only satisfaction, when he took her life. She had not only betrayed the Brotherhood, she had betrayed him.

Under different circumstances, he would even have been proud. Such cold ruthlessness, such cunning. But now, he only felt hate, and it held even the chilling fear at bay.

He would find her. He would end her. He would see the Brotherhood saved.

He was too late to prevent her from killing Havilstein Hoar-Blood, and could already feel the Black Hands angry hounds at his neck. He could no longer return to Fort Farragut, for they were waiting for him there. Instead, he followed her shrouded in shadows along the road to Bravil.

She was riding fast, and he had to stay hidden to not to give himself away, for he was hunted and had to travel with caution. But cruel fear and realization drove him forward. There was only one member of the Black Hand residing in Bravil, and he could not allow her to slaughter him too.

He would stop and end her sooner, before she could bring about the Listener’s demise.

But he arrived too late. She had been faster, and when he ran up to her, rage driving away the shadowy cloak that had concealed him before, Ungolim fell dead before her feet.

Her reaction, however, was not the one he had expected. As he hissed at her, only barely containing his rage that urged him to end her sorry life right and now, shock and confusion painted her face, drove all the color from her cheeks until she was the color of cold white ash.

It dawned on him, then, that she had not known. The traitor stood not in front of him: instead, he had played them both. And she as well as him had fallen victim to his treachery.

His instincts had not lead him astray. She had never betrayed his trust. And she agreed, without question, without discussion, to track down the traitor. Eager to proof not only her innocence, but also his. To bring an end to this nightmare, and safe the Brotherhood before it fell apart.

But where would he hide? He could not follow her, could not accompany her, for it would only endanger here, create the illusion that they had been in league all along. And Fort Farragut was no longer the safe refuge it once had been.

Farm Applewatch, he decided then. The place where she had brought about the old woman’s death. A place far away from his usual hiding places, a place that only the two of them knew, a place where they could meet once she had unveiled the traitor.

They could stay, not be seen with each other, so he parted from her after a last, desperate kiss, a melting of her lips against his, and he left with the taste of blood on his tongue, remnants of her last meal.

He clung to it as he clung to the hope, the knowledge, that she would soon return, that the excruciating hunt would end. He forced himself to wait, pacing up and down in the small farmhouse as the hours stretched by and melted into days.

She would be here soon.

The door opened, and the small glimmer of hope dissipated when he saw who entered.

They’d found him.

He told them to stop. He told them he was innocent. Pleaded, almost. He told them they all had been lead astray. That it was the wrong traitor they had hunted down.

They wouldn’t listen.

Lucien Lachance draw his blade, but they were four and he was but one man, exhausted and desperate. He took his stance. He held himself against their wrath combined.

But they were four, and he was but one man, and when Bellamont’s blade struck, he was not fast enough enough.

Lucien Lachance was swallowed by the Void.


End file.
